by Unknown
That’s when he’d spotted the couple pressed closed together in the shadows of the tall, snow-laden pines.
“What’s wrong?” Z had asked, obviously noticing Jude’s preoccupation. He’d straightened from his reclining position on the couch.
“Nothing,” Jude said automatically, not wanting to sound alarming. One glance around the spacious great room told him that Grandpa Joe had gone to bed.
“You sure as hell look like something is,” Z said, staring at Jude narrowly. “What did you see?”
Something about the way his brother had asked the question pricked Jude’s suspicion. “Why? What do you think I saw?”
Z had hitched his shoulders in an evasive gesture. “You tell me.”
Jude had rolled his eyes. “Okay. I saw Ilsa and Stephen. Together.”
“You mean in bed?”
Z’s quick, level question took Jude by surprise.
“No, not in bed. Jesus. I saw them out in the yard. Making out.”
“Oh,” Z had said, picking up his coffee cup and glancing back at the widescreen television.
“What do you mean, oh. That’s all you’re going to say? You knew they were fooling around, didn’t you?”
“I saw them kissing when I was here on Labor Day…when they didn’t think anyone was watching them. I just thought maybe things had progressed to the bedroom at this point. I’ve seen the way they look at each other.”
Jude had fallen down into a chair, jarred by the unexpected event, not to mention Z’s terse admission of prior knowledge.
“Ilsa and Stephen?” he’d said incredulously, experimenting with the new meaning of the pairing of the names.
“Yeah. I was pretty sideswiped by the idea at first, too. Who’d have thought it? Ilsa doesn’t seem like the type.”
“I would have never thought…so soon after Clive passed,” Jude had mumbled. He thought of what the girls would think of it all. What Esme would think…
“It’s been over a year.”
“Yeah, but I mean…Ilsa and Stephen,” Jude had repeated hollowly, as if he couldn’t quite make the equation work in his head.
“You think she’s slumming it?” Z had asked him sharply.
Jude had paused before he’d answered, thinking. When he finally did, he’d done so honestly.
“I just never thought it’d really happen.”
“What?”
“That one of us guys from Beckett Lodge would ever hook up with an Esterbrook girl.”
Z had given a bitter laugh. “I hear you. In real life, the stable boy never ends up with the princess.”
“Jude?” Esme interrupted his train of thought.
He found himself focusing on Esme’s fierce, questioning gaze. There was something else he read in her eyes. Hurt. At the recognition, it felt like a hand squeezed at his heart. He knew she’d be knocked over, finding out about Stephen and her mom. All of the Esterbrooks had loved Clive like crazy, but Esme had been especially close to her father. Clive had been the fire tamer. He’d been the only one who could remotely cool and control the burning spirit of his second daughter. What Jude hadn’t prepared himself for was how angry Esme would be at him—Jude—for knowing something about Stephen and her mom, and keeping the truth from her. When he’d seen the realization dawn on her expressive face earlier in the Esterbrook family room, his first instinct had been to avoid her until he figured out what to say. He still hadn’t found any magical explanation.
But that hadn’t stopped him earlier from climbing the roof and seeking her out.
He held up his hands in a surrender gesture. “I admit that I saw them kissing, so I knew something was going on between them. But that’s it, Es. I figured if it was anything serious, then you’d find out about it soon enough. And the person to tell you wasn’t me, it was your mom.”
“Who are you to decide that?”
“It was her right to tell you about any relationship in her life, not mine.”
She frowned at his reasonable answer. “What did Z mean when he said all that stuff about the hired help? He implied you’d said something similar during New Years.”
“I never said anything like that. All I said was…”
He faded off, exhaling in acute frustration. She wasn’t going to like what he’d actually said much better.
“What? What, Jude?” she demanded, taking a challenging step toward him.
“All I said to Z was that I couldn’t believe it’d happened: that a guy from Beckett Lodge had actually hooked up with an Esterbrook woman. That’s all I said.”
The silence rang in his ears. He felt stripped raw beneath her stare. Jesus, it was hot as Hades in here. Against his will, he felt that familiar tug at his crotch. Why did she have to be so damn gorgeous? Why did she have to be so damn Esme, always prodding and poking at him, never letting him rest…Never letting the wanting stop.
It’s my own fault. I shouldn’t have ever touched her. I opened up Pandora’s box in that hotel room. Apparently, I can’t lock up the wanting. Not anymore.
“Is it really all that strange?” she asked.
He blinked at her quiet question. “Are you saying you think it’s okay? Normal? That Stephen and my mom are planning to get married in a couple days?”
She looked vaguely nauseated all of a sudden.
“Es?”
She placed a hand on her belly.
“I don’t think it’s abnormal. No, I don’t!” she added hotly when he made a slight scoffing sound.
“You looked like you were going to be sick just now at the mention of them getting married.”
“Well, I haven’t had much time to get used to it, have I?” she retorted, turning away. She walked over to her bed and plopped down on the edge. She picked up an afghan at the foot of the mattress and impatiently unfolded it before she draped it over her shoulders. He had the unpleasant realization that she felt vulnerable in front of him, and wanted to cover up. The knowledge rankled.
“Unlike you, who has known for almost a year now,” she added, throwing a bitter glance his way.
“I didn’t know anything but that they kissed,” he defended firmly, following her. He sat down next to her. “For all I knew, it was just that one time. It could have been an impulsive New Year’s kiss.”
“Is that what you really thought?” she asked sarcastically.
“No.”
She blinked, taken aback by his quiet, concise answer. Their stares met. God, he hated this invisible barrier he sensed between them. Why did sex always screw things up? But this wasn’t just about the fact that they’d had sex.
It was more about Esme’s stubbornness.
“Es,” he began, spreading his hand on her thigh above her knee.
“No. Don’t say anything, Jude,” she said in a choked voice.
“Why? Why won’t you talk to me about what happened in Beverly Hills?”
She laughed raggedly and rolled her eyes in tense disbelief. God. This was worse than he’d thought. She’s about to lose it, Jude realized uneasily.
“What’s there to talk about? We got drunk and screwed.”
His hand tightened reflexively on her thigh.
“That’s it? That’s all you think happened?” he asked slowly, anger building in him.
“No, of course I don’t think that’s all that happened. I just…I don’t want to hash it all out, that’s all.”
“I don’t understand why. And I need to. You left that morning. You’ve avoided me like I had a nasty case of the plague ever since then.”
“You’ve done some pretty damn skilled avoiding yourself,” she defended hotly, the color in her face rising again. A damp tendril of hair clung to her cheek. He reached impulsively and pulled it away, pausing to slick the moist hair between his fingers. She stilled at his touch. He saw the slight quaking of her body. He recalled her stunned reaction when he’d leaned over and kissed her cheek in that hotel room.
She’s not disgusted by my touch, at least. That was
something, anyway. He wasn’t above pressing his advantage.
“You know I care about you, Esme.”
Her lips parted. He felt that prickly, hot sensation swell in his groin again.
“I know you do. That’s what makes this whole situation suck. That’s why I don’t want to talk about it.” He raised his eyebrows in a silent question. He still held her hair between thumb and forefinger as if he thought the contact created a bridge between them, no matter how fragile that joining. “Because I care about you, too,” she admitted softly. He found himself leaning into her to catch what she said, but it was really her full, soft-looking lips that pulled at him. “We’ve ruined everything.” Her throat convulsed as she swallowed. She closed her eyelids. “And now we’ve found out that Stephen is a Beckett, and he and mom are getting married…and…and you and I have blown up our friendship.”
His breath stuck in his lungs when she opened her big eyes and he saw the pain in the green, brown and amber depths.
“Everything is so fucked up, Jude. I would normally have ran to you when I found out about Stephen and Mom, but now—”
“But now, what? We can still talk to each, other, Es. We’re talking now.”
She cast him a suspicious glance. “I suppose I should be thankful that at least you’re not treating me all polite-like.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he wondered.
She turned her face away, clearly avoiding him. He put his fingers on her chin and turned her back to him. God, her eyes could kill him. He’d never known that eyes could be such a potent sexual feature until Esme. He drew closer, drawn irrevocably by her dewy, smooth skin, lustrous, uncertain eyes, soft, pink lips and fresh-from-the shower, citrusy smell. For a few seconds, she just stared up at his mouth, as if mesmerized. Her lips parted slowly. The ache at his crotch grew, fracturing any remaining logic. He moved closer just a fraction of an inch. She blinked and started back.
“That’s not talking, Jude.”
“What do you mean?”
“You were about to kiss me!” she accused, scooting away from him an inch or two on the bed.
“So? You were about to kiss me, too.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, scowling and wrapping that stupid afghan tighter around her body. “Seriously? How can you be thinking about that at a moment like this?”
He sighed and raked his fingers through his hair. “A moment like what, exactly?” She bared her teeth. “You mean I shouldn’t want to kiss you, just because your Mom and Stephen are getting married? My libido should be dead, just because you think your Mom’s should be?”
Her mouth dropped open. He cringed inwardly at her obvious outrage.
“I had no idea you were such a pig, Jude Beckett. I meant, how can you be thinking about having sex with me when we’ve probably already ruined our friendship? Typical man. You don’t even care about our friendship, do you? You just care about getting your rocks off.”
She stood in a royal huff. He’d reached his limit. He grabbed her hips and hauled her back down on the bed in one swift motion. She bounced a few inches on the mattress. The afghan spilled off her shoulders. She looked furious enough to bite through metal.
“Don’t get all sanctimonious,” he said loudly, heading her off before she could start lecturing him. “This is me you’re talking to, Es.”
“Be quiet,” she commanded, her gaze skittering nervously to her closed bedroom door.
He rolled his eyes. “Your room is the only one in this wing of the house, and you know it. Nobody’s going to hear us. No matter how loud we are,” he added, his gaze narrowing once again on her mouth.
“You don’t care,” she whispered incredulously, anger and hurt reverberating in every word. Jesus. He ground his teeth together so hard, his jaw ached. “You don’t even care that our friendship is probably over.”
He squeezed her shoulders and smooth upper arms, drawing her closer to him, until the pointed tips of her breasts ghosted his shirt.
“You don’t get it, do you? You will always. Be. My friend, Esme,” he told her succinctly, shaking her gently for emphasis. Anger blazed up in him. How could she be so stupid?
“But—”
“Always,” he repeated with a glare.
Then he leaned down, and kissed her in a very un-friend-like fashion.
Chapter Eleven
Esme guessed it was a kind of madness, what overcame her at Jude’s kiss. She couldn’t imagine what else could be responsible for this wholesale abandonment of all reason.
Oh God. His heat overwhelmed her from the first.
He took full possession of her mouth, shaping her lips to his, coaxing her to open for him. And suddenly, she was. The floodgate snapped back, and she was letting him in, tangling her tongue with his, absorbing his unique taste, and remembering all too perfectly how skilled and convincing Jude’s mouth really was. It was like a bomb went off in her, like he’d hidden some explosive in every nerve in her body that night in Beverly Hills, like he’d planted himself into her very blood. All that was required is just one more taste to reactivate her and…
Boom.
His arms went around her, and distantly she realized something important. Here—with his mouth on her and his vibrant, hard body pressing next to hers—there was forgetfulness. And safety. Jude paradoxically steadied her rocking world with the most volatile of embraces. His big hand moved along the side of her body and cupped her breast.
And pleasure. There was so much pleasure.
His thumb feathered and flicked her nipple. She moaned into his mouth and ran her hands feverishly across his back, outlining corded muscle and bone. Hungry. She felt so hungry. How could she not have known until that moment that she was starved for him?
How could she have forgotten this relentless, elemental need?
They fell back onto her bed, their mouths fused. He rolled on top of her. She adored his weight. His solid strength. He was gloriously erect. She could feel him through his jeans. She tilted her pelvis up, stroking him with her sex. A man’s body was a freaking miracle. No, Jude’s was. He groaned roughly into her mouth.
“God, Es,” he mumbled, his lips moving along her neck. She stretched her head back, inviting him. He accepted, pressing his firm, warm lips to her throat, nipping at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. Liquid heat flooded through her. She hugged him to her. Surely she’d die if she didn’t get him inside her.
Soon.
She writhed against him, but he was patient and focused when he lifted his head and drew down the straps of her nightgown. He lowered the fabric down over her breasts. She saw that hunger tighten his face, that almost savage fever that she knew would be mirrored in her own expression at that moment. He took both of her breasts in his hands and massaged them firmly for a few seconds before plumping them together. His head lowered. He gave a low growl before he sucked a tip into his mouth.
She cried out in sharp pleasure. He was greedy, feasting first on one tip, then the other, tonguing the nipples and sucking firmly. Esme gasped for air. She loved his way with her. So firm. Not aggressive, necessarily, but forceful. Powerful. He knew what he wanted, and he took it, giving her so much in return. She held him to her, clutching at his head, drowning in pleasure.
Suddenly, he leaned up slightly and released her breasts. She gave a gasp of displeasure at his sudden absence. He reached for her wrists. He pinned her arms just above her head on the pillow. Had she been scratching his scalp and neck with her nails? Then she recognized that feral, possessive flash in his eyes and went still. No. He just wanted her at his mercy. Well, he needn’t have worried about that, she thought dazedly. His head lowered, and he sucked a nipple into his mouth. Her back arched off the bed. She bit off a scream.
He released one of her wrists and found her sex. He rubbed her clit knowingly with two fingers and plunged another into her channel. His mouth cut off her shriek of excitement. Her thighs spread instinctively, granting him more access. He worked her
into a frenzy, playing her with his hand and swallowing her cries of pleasure. Esme sizzled like a livewire beneath him.
He plucked at her upturned lips. She became aware that he watched her as she coasted along the ledge of climax. His smoky, focused stare unnerved her. It compelled her.
“Such a sweet little pussy,” he muttered as his arm moved and his hand mastered her. “I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop thinking about you, Es. Come for me, baby.”
Baby. She hadn’t let herself dwell on the fact that he’d called her that when they’d had sex in Beverly Hills. It sounded so strange coming from his mouth, so excitingly illicit. That one word coming from his mouth underscored it all. They’d crossed the barrier.
There was no going back.
She clamped her eyelids closed as pleasure exploded in her.
He worked every last shiver of pleasure out of her with is hand, watching her the whole time. When she finally gasped raggedly and sagged onto the mattress, he moved his hand up along her belly, spreading her juices on her skin. His intimate caress brought it home to her: how exposed she was. How naked, lying there with her gown pushed up around her waist and her thighs spread wide for him see the tattoo.
He had rolled onto his side and was reaching into his back pocket—looking for a condom, she realized. She inched her thighs closed, but she needn’t have worried about him spying her embarrassing tattoo. He looked distracted and irritated.
“Shit,” he said, slapping his ass—the pockets of his jeans, actually. “I didn’t bring my wallet. Do you have a condom?”
She shook her head.
“Fuck me,” he cursed bitterly. He came back over her, his elbows digging into the mattress. He closed his eyes tight, and she knew he was trying to calm his overheated body. She’d never seen him look so tense. It made her feel empty inside. She reached between their bodies and found the top button on his jeans. His eyelids sprang open. She held his stare, urging him back slightly. He rolled onto his hip. She stroked his rigid erection through his clothing, seeing that fire flame high in his eyes again, before she jerked open another button.
